


Crépuscule

by emei



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-20
Updated: 2010-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-06 12:19:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emei/pseuds/emei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris!AU. Merlin is a struggling writer living in a bookstore. Arthur's an exchange student. If they hadn't met, Arthur's life would have ended under the wheels of a parisian bus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out on the short and cracky side, as ideas come, and then grew into something else entirely. It's a love letter to Paris, to the Merlin characters, to storytelling and to beginnings. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin is a struggling writer living in a bookstore. Arthur's an exchange student. If they hadn't met, Arthur's life would have ended under the wheels of a parisian bus.

“Merci beaucoup, vraiment,” says Arthur and the guy who’s just let go of Arthur’s arm smiles and says, “You’re welcome,” in a decidedly British accent.

“Am I that obvious?” asks Arthur, somewhat annoyed but mostly amused and still very grateful. He would not have liked get run over by a bus just because he looked the wrong way before stepping out into a one-way street. _Son of Uther Pendragon Killed by Own Stupidity in Paris._ It wouldn’t have sounded good.

“Yeah, kind of… Sorry,” the guy says and smiles even wider. It makes him look a bit manic.

“Guess I still need to work on my pronunciation, huh. So, let me buy you a coffee?” The guy looks surprised and confused, and Arthur adds quickly, “To thank you for saving my skin”.

“Oh, you don’t have to. But all right. I’d never turn down coffee.”

“I’m Arthur,” Arthur says and sticks his hand out.

“Merlin,” the guy says and greets him with a bony and cold hand.

“_Merlin._ Really?” repeats Arthur and tries and fails miserably not to sound sarcastic and amused. Merlin looks tired and says, voice flat, “That’s my name. Let’s go, shall we?”

Arthur starts heading towards the closest café, next to the metro, with a nice big terrace.

“Nah,” says Merlin, “let’s not fall into the tourist trap,” and heads the other way. Arthur restrains himself from pointing out that it’s a perfectly nice place and that he’s the one who’s buying the coffee anyway. Merlin (honestly, who names their kid _Merlin_?) did save Arthur’s life. So if he wants his coffee somewhere else, so be it. They follow a smaller street, turn right, and end up in front of a small slightly shabby looking bar. Merlin orders coffee for them both and because Arthur is in a generous mood he acknowledges that it’s actually the best he’s had in a while. It’s cheap, too. They make small talk about how French is a ridiculously hard language, and Paris lovely but very annoying, and the conversation is calm and pleasant. Then Arthur realises that he’s got a lesson starting in ten minutes. It feels stupid to thank somebody for saving your life by spending two euro on coffee and then running away as soon as you’ve finished your tiny cup, so Arthur asks if Merlin wants to meet up later for a pint.

“Sure. Is seven fine with you? At, say, metro Saint-Paul?” Merlin says, looking pleased. Arthur answers “Sounds great. See you!” and almost sprints from the bar towards his lesson. The French professors are very old-fashioned and strict with their timetables.

Arthur has been hanging around the metro exit for fifteen minutes when Merlin shows up that evening. Mostly it’s because Arthur was early. He still says “You’re late,” to Merlin by way of hello, as fifteen minutes feel very long when you’re leaning on a railing, staring at a tiny merry-go-round and watching every new wave of people coming up the stairs for a darkhaired almost-stranger.

“Sorry,” says Merlin and doesn’t look it. “Come on, let’s go a bit further into the Marais.”

“That’s the gay district, right?” says Arthur as they’re waiting to cross the street.

“Yeah.”

He takes another look at Merlin. Considering that he isn’t actually French, Arthur realises that Merlin looks kind of feminine. What with the scarf and those slim jeans and the expressive hands. If he stops chalking it up to the Being French, it takes another significance. And now they’re going to have a drink in the gay district.

“We’re not actually going to a gay bar though, are we?”

Merlin hesitates. “Well… If it bothers you, I know another really nice place a few blocks from here.”

“I’m not _bothered_. Lead the way.”

Arthur saves getting bothered for really important things, mostly the kind that risk making his father disappointed. Gay bars do not belong to them. As least if nobody’s telling Arthur’s father about it. He just might get a tiny bit nervous at the thought, but Merlin provides ample distraction. Ten minutes later they’re walking down a street Arthur could have sworn they’d crossed twice already.

“In my world, leading the way implies actually _knowing where you are going_,” he says.

Merlin looks completely unapologetic. “Hang on, we’re almost there. Marais is a damned labyrinth.”

“I’d rather not have you for a guide in a real one, thanks. We’d starve to death before we got out,” says Arthur.

“There is nothing wrong with my sense of directions,” says Merlin and laughs.

They don’t actually go to the place with the four gigantic rainbow flags, for which Arthur is thankful. Seeing as it would have meant Merlin had no taste and Arthur would have had to look down on him for it. Their bar is small, with wooden tables along the red walls, a few couples and a group of friends occupying different corners. Merlin sits down by a small table and Arthur goes to buy the beers. The barman smiles seductively at him and when he makes his way back to Merlin he notices several pairs of eyes following him.

“They’re staring at me,” he says, voice low.

“Well, you’re very blond. It’s noticeable here,” answers Merlin without bothering to keep his voice down. Clearly he has no sense of discretion.

“I must seem very exotic. Probably irresistible.” It’s possible that he sounds a little too smug. Merlin snorts and tells him not to flatter himself too much. New prey is always interesting when the pond is small. Arthur does not want to imagine himself as a goldfish chased around a pond by big gay eels, but he does.

“Ew. Shut up.”

“You’re the one who started it, you prat,” says Merlin.

The banter reminds Arthur of Morgana, but this is kinder, softer, not based on tricky lifelong dynamics and armed with too much intimate details and childhood humiliations. With Merlin it’s just cheerful mockery.

“Got to get going,” says Merlin eventually. “Gwen promised to let me in at ten and I really can’t be late.”

“Don’t you have a key to your place?” Arthur wonders if Gwen is his girlfriend and if the only reason for the gay bar thing was to try to mock him by making him uncomfortable.

“Oh,” says Merlin and realises they’ve actually skipped the fact-exchanging introduction part of the evening completely. “No, actually I’m staying in a bookstore. I’m a tumbleweed. The struggling writer charity case of the month. Usually I get to borrow the spare key but someone else needed it today.”

“A writer? What kind of stuff do you write?”

”Mostly I write silly fantasy about gay wizards,” says Merlin and smiles crookedly. It’s quite true. His real manuscript, though, is something else entirely. _Memory of will._ He never talks about it.

Arthur laughs. It makes him look open, young. “What, no pretentious poetry about love in the city of light? How refreshingly down-to-earth of you.”

Walking towards the metro in the evening light that turns the city into a coulisse, Merlin gets that feeling, the one he uses when he’s writing. It’s a tingling under his skin, a rush of potential – as though he could change the entire world, wring it inside out and rearrange it if he just _pushed_. In those moments he sees the multiple ways the story could unfold from here, threads of would-be storylines. He rarely gets the feeling from his own life. It’s been long. Perhaps not since the first days with Will.

Arthur waits for Merlin to call him. If he wants to meet up again, it’s up to him. After three days Arthur’s about to give in and call anyway because he keeps thinking about the annoying bastard. His lessons feel dull, the people unfailingly polite but lacking personality. Then he realises that Merlin never gave him his number. Arthur isn’t sure whether Merlin has his phone number either. It’s ridiculous. The whole thing is ridiculous. Arthur does not meet strangers in the street and go hang out in gay bars with them, and he definitely does not let them take over his thoughts entirely.

He caves the next day and seeks out the bookstore Merlin said he was staying at. It’s a sunny day and the city is crowded. It’s surprising that Arthur finds Merlin so quickly. He’s sitting on a bench in front of the store, head bent over a notebook he’s scribbling in. Arthur slips between the old women and students milling among the boxes of books on sale, and sits down next to Merlin. He just keeps writing.

“Hello,” says Arthur and Merlin jumps a little. Then he looks up and smiles.

“Hi there. How are you?”

“You never gave me your number,” Arthur says. “Which was clearly very stupid. Otherwise we could have had more beer yesterday.”

Merlin laughs and says that it’s never too late for beer.

“Exactly. But first we must remedy this great mistake. Here, just enter your number.” Arthur holds his phone out to Merlin, who stares a bit at it and doesn’t take it.

“I don’t have one, actually,” he says.

Arthur is speechless for a moment.

“Hang on, what era are you living in? The middle ages?”

“Some of us prefer not to have our brains turn to mush from radiation, thank you very much,” quips Merlin, still smiling.

“Ha. But seriously, how do you get in touch with people?”

“I write letters?”

Arthur folds over laughing and Merlin glares at him.

“Letters are very nice! Very underappreciated!”

“You’re such a grandma. Lucky for us you keep the traditional ways alive,” says Arthur, still wheezing with laughter. He still thinks Merlin might be joking. Arthur would go crazy without his phone. He almost shudders at the thought: to be unreachable, out of touch with the world, and without Internet, camera, music, calendar…

Merlin really has no phone. It’s baffling. Arthur pokes fun at his old-fashioned hippie mindset for the rest of the afternoon as they wander along the Seine in search of ice cream and an unoccupied place in the sun. They end up on île Saint Louis, buying what Merlin insists is the best ice cream in Paris and eating it sitting on the tip of the island, opposite Notre Dame. The cathedral looks different from this angle. More interesting. Somehow the whole city seems more interesting in Merlin’s company. His penchant for back streets and odd details turn this romanticised city more real, more multidimensional.

Late in the afternoon, Arthur follows Merlin all the way back to the bookstore before rushing off to yet another class. Merlin enters to find Gwen smiling at him from behind the counter.

“Was that your boyfriend? He’s really good looking,” she says.

“No,” Merlin says and tries hard for neutral. Something must show on his face anyway because Gwen turns horrifyingly embarrassed and awkward.

“I’m sorry! No offence meant, right, I wasn’t trying to imply that… but of course I did so, er. Sorry. I mean, it’s not that you’re…”

Merlin can’t help smiling at how crimson she’s blushing. He wouldn’t have thought that colour possible on her. He cuts off her apologies.

“Gwen! It’s fine. Don’t worry. I am gay, for the record. But Arthur’s not my boyfriend.”

Gwen looks relieved. “But he is very handsome. Is he French?”

“No, he’s British. Very. And a bit of snob.”

Gwen snorts.

“But an entertaining one,” Merlin adds and gets a charmed smile out of her.

Leaving Gwen to tend to the customers who are barging through the door, Merlin goes upstairs. He takes two steps at a time, in need of pen and paper right now, needs his words to distract him from this quivering deep in him that won’t let him breathe properly. He can’t allow it to take control of him. He writes furiously, curled on a hard chair in a corner, wills himself away from the constraints of this life.

Arthur decides that they should have drinks somewhere _nice_ this time, and Merlin fears bars with expensive wine lists and disdainful waiters. That’s why he says, “Yes, of course, nice it is,” and drags Arthur into the nearest wine store and down to the Seine.

“I didn’t mean nice as in sitting on cold, dirty stones and drinking wine straight from the bottle,” Arthur grumbles again, and again.

“I’ll make sure to bring glasses next time then, so I don’t offend your sensibilities.”

“Hah,” says Arthur and takes another swig of the wine, looking surprisingly content. Merlin wanted to buy the cheapest there was, claiming that it was necessary for the bohemian style he was going for, but Arthur insisted that he did have some standards to uphold. Merlin isn’t complaining, since the wine tastes light years better than what he usually drinks. And he’s already feeling pleasantly fuzzy and languid. Arthur tilts his head back to drink a little more and, oh, how the sunset light glitters in his hair.

Merlin leans against him to take the bottle and stays where he ends up, shoulder pressed against Arthur’s arm. It’s comfortable. Arthur next to him is warm and real and human, and Merlin tries to stop thinking. The wine helps a great deal with that, but it doesn’t help his balance.

“Hey, don’t fall in the river, you idiot,” says Arthur with his arm around Merlin’s waist to keep him steady.

“I wouldn’t have,” says Merlin and relaxes into Arthur’s hold anyway.

It gets chilly, eventually. The sun has set, melting golden over the rooftops and glittering swashes of colour over the Seine. That set Merlin off on a tangent about this scene in L’Œuvre by Zola with a golden sunset over île de la cité. A painter gets inspired and then goes mad trying to recreate that splendour, and, says Merlin and waves a hand vaguely towards the sky, you can understand him when you see this, yeah?

They stumble up the boulevard Saint-Michel, shoulders bumping into each other ever so often, perhaps not only from drunken unbalance. Since it’s getting late and Merlin is drunk, it’s perfectly rational and a friendly gesture that Arthur invites him home to his apartment. Merlin would surely make a fool of himself if he went to the bookstore in this state. Arthur likes the look of the place. He really can’t inflict a drunken Merlin on it.

“So you live by the Luxembourg gardens. What a luxury. You rent a chambre de bonne?” says Merlin.

“A what?” Arthur has to ask, and he wishes Merlin would stop trying to impress him with superior French skills already. It doesn’t work anyway. Arthur prefers to be the one impressing others with knowledge. Now if Merlin would just stop getting that lower, huskier voice when he speaks French. It sounds like the words themselves want to be a caress.

“Chambre de bonne. A room in the attic, old servants quarters,” says Merlin and Arthur is a little bit appalled.

“Of course not,” he huffs. “I rent a flat, just round the corner here. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Merlin actually stops short and stares the moment they’ve stepped over the threshold of Arthur’s flat.

“You live in a three-room flat by the Luxembourg by yourself,” Merlin breathes. “Just how fucking rich are you?”

“Just because you’re a penniless _artiste_ doesn’t mean the rest of us are broke, you know,” Arthur says and shoves Merlin towards the couch in the living room.

He had forgotten that pile of books on the floor. Merlin stumbles over it and grabs Arthur’s wrist for balance. They both end up on the floor, Arthur sprawling on top on Merlin in an undignified way. Merlin’s face is just inches from his own, wide blue eyes staring up at him, mouth slightly open. Arthur can’t help closing that space and kissing him. For a panicky moment Merlin goes a shocked sort of paralysed and Arthur thinks_ oh hell._ Then Merlin kisses him back with a frenzied intent and curls his hands around Arthur’s neck, drawing him closer. They battle, kissing and stroking and pressing, it’s like Merlin wants to meld them into one single body. Arthur feels all his nerves are on the surface of his skin, for Merlin to use, amuse, twist to new heights of pleasure and pain.

They’re drunk. It’s fumbling and urgent. Arthur bangs his elbow on the table and Merlin bites his lip so hard it bleeds. The floor is very cold. Arthur wants to keep going for hours.

The early morning light follows the angle of Merlin’s shoulder, down his ribcage, along a long jagged scar Arthur didn’t see last night, to the sheets that pool around his hips. He’s turned towards the window, looking out. Arthur’s relaxed on his pillows, feeling pleasantly sleepy. Merlin looks almost ethereal like this, all pale skin and hard angles, soft stretches like the line of his neck in between, morning sun slipping over him. Frail and breakable. None of the fire that left them breathless hours earlier.

“How did you get that scar?” Arthur asks. Merlin stiffens, almost imperceptibly.

“An accident,” he says, voice very light. “Car crash. I’ll go take a shower, if that’s okay.”

“Go on then,” says Arthur and resists the temptation of pulling Merlin back to explore all corners of him some more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana comes to town, Merlin wonders if Hunith is blackmailing Gauis and there's a hug at Centre Pompidou.

The bookstore is already open when Merlin comes back from Arthur's flat. He wishes the bells on the door were less noisy.

“Bonjour petit faucon. Had fun?”

Merlin also wishes Jean would sound less gleefully cheerful. It’s too early in the morning.

Jean’s full name is actually Jean-Pierre Ashley Bent. Bilingual parents can be _evil._ Every time he thinks about it, Merlin is grateful that Hunith didn’t decide to honour his unknown father by saddling Merlin with an unpronounceable name in some dying language. She very well could’ve. Jean-Pierre insists that his friends call him JP. Merlin honestly tried, but he felt like an actor in a bad American soap opera every time he said it. He’s settled for Jean.

“You’re just the man I wanted to see, actually. All the others are off on one important errand or the other, so I could use some help today.”

Merlin decides that rearranging books is an excellent distraction. He aligns them with millimetre precision. The concentration required combined with his headache and lack of sleep almost stops him from thinking about Arthur. Well, at least he isn’t imagining last night constantly. Jean takes pity on his bedraggled look after forty-five minutes or so and sends him off to get changed and buy coffee.

“And bring me a noisette,” he calls after Merlin as the door closes behind him.

\---

The next day Merlin walks to the 13th arrondissement, because he likes the idea of a Parisian Chinatown and is a bit embarrassed that he hasn’t actually been there yet. He ends up on the small green square at Place d’Italie, in the middle of a roundabout, sitting on a bench and contemplating how much his feet hurt and the fact that the trees look exactly the same here as they do all over the city. He supposes that he took the wrong streets, and that there must be something that resembles a Chinatown more than an 19th century conservatoire somewhere close to here, but he’s too tired to search more. He takes the metro back.

Jean tells him that there’s been a guy coming in to ask for him three times today. A blond, snobby brit. “You should call him before he accuses the rest of us of hiding you in the basement for nefarious purposes, or something. The third time I told him you were out and that I still didn’t know when you’d be back, he looked like I was incompetent. Or an insult to his person.”

Merlin snorts and hands Jean the takeaway espresso he picked up on his way from the metro. He feels obliged to show some kind of thanks for making Jean have to handle Arthur. He isn’t going to call. And he doesn’t really feel up to searching Arthur out. So: coffee for Jean.

\---

“Arthur, hi!” says the girl behind the counter when he steps in. “Wonderful! Can’t you please, please do me a favour and take Merlin out somewhere to cheer him up? I think he’ll scare people away soon.”

“Uh,” says Arthur and stares at her a bit. She blushes hard, tells him that her name’s Gwen, and that Merlin is upstairs, and she’ll just… Um.

She hides behind a stack of books and Arthur, slightly perplexed, weaves his way to the stairs in the back of the shop. Upstairs Merlin’s sitting on what seems to be his bed, a mattress wedged in between overflowing shelves. He has a folder open on his knees, but he’s not looking at it because he sits with his hands pressed to his eyes, fingers curled in his hair. There’s an unsettling rawness in the pose.

Arthur draws back quietly, and then stomps up the last steps once more, loudly, to give Merlin a chance to collect himself. The folder has disappeared when he comes into view again, and even if Merlin’s smiled hello is a bit shaky, it’s still a smile.

Arthur drags him out for dinner, because Morgana has come to visit and Arthur thinks that making them meet is a stroke of brilliance. They can talk books at each other and Arthur can spend time with them without awkward _are we talking about this or not_-conversations with Merlin or too personal ones with Morgana. Pure brilliance.

\---

The restaurant Arthur takes him to is on Avenue Montaigne. Merlin stares (discreetly, mind) at the women in cocktail dresses and dangerously high heels next to men in perfectly cut suits walking past the enormous windows of the haute couture stores. He can’t decide if he feels like a social anthropologist on a mission or like something the cat dragged in. He takes another look at the restaurant Arthur’s steering him towards, does some quick calculations and frowns. If he just has an entree, he isn’t very hungry anyway, and he doesn’t strictly need to buy a metro card next week… But Arthur will surely have wine with the dinner, and it would probably look bad if he asks for just plain water…

“Dinner’s on me,” Arthur says at that precise moment.

“Don’t treat me like a charity case!” says Merlin and realises that he described himself exactly that way the first time they met. Thankfully, Arthur doesn’t point it out. Besides, this is different. He doesn’t want Arthur to think he needs to be taken care of.

“Come on now, we’ve already established that I’m the, what did you say, _obscenely rich _exchange student_,_ and that you’re a bohemian artiste. If I want to impress my stepsister and drag you along for it, I get to pay. Okay? Look, there’s Morgana.”

Arthur doesn’t let go of his elbow, and Merlin thinks it would make for a horrible first impression to be seen in the middle of an argument, so he shuts up. Morgana is a tall, gorgeous woman who looks nothing like Arthur and who’s perfectly at ease in these surroundings. She kisses Merlin on the cheek in greeting.

“He’s British, you really don’t have to,” grumbles Arthur.

“Oh, but I do,” says Morgana and laughs, high and clear. Then she kisses Arthur’s cheek as well.

Morgana finds them a table and proceeds to order in impeccably accented French. Merlin quickly realises why Arthur wanted company for this, as Morgana makes cheerfully cutting remarks about absolutely everything Arthur says, does, or might think about doing. He gives almost as good as he gets, but it’s _unending_. And to be honest, even Arthur can’t quite match Morgana’s particular brand of warm sarcasm. Halfway through the starter, she turns to Merlin.

“So, Arthur tells me you’re a writer.”

“I, yes, well, I’m trying. Nothing much published though.”

“Did he tell you that I’m in publishing? We mostly do non-fiction, mind, but I know a fair bit about the business.” There’s a curious glint in her eyes. “What are you writing? Do tell.”

Merlin tells her about his parody of high fantasy, in which everyone is gay and all quests are either pointless and/or thinly disguised metaphors, and she asks good questions and seems amused. He constantly has the feeling that she’s letting him off easy; as though she knows she could force more important things out of him with a well-worded question. But she simply smiles brightly and lets him talk about his gay wizards.

\---

When Merlin’s left, Arthur accompanies Morgana back to her hotel.

“You should take care, with Merlin,” she tells him.

There are so many things wrong with that sentence that Arthur doesn’t even know where to begin. First, this is Morgana, and it sounds like she’s trying to give him advice on his emotional life, which is just too much. And she’s telling him to be careful with Merlin, who she met for the first time only a few hours ago. Like Merlin is some fragile bird and she’d know it better than Arthur. On the other hand, Morgana has that trick of figuring people out remarkably fast. And Merlin is a writer, after all, and judging by the stories Morgana tells about the writers she works with, they’re something of a species apart.

Arthur stares a bit at her. She pats his arm and says: “There, there, don’t break your poor brain.”

\---

It’s a quiet morning. Merlin’s sweeping the floor when he hears familiar voices from the shop. He finishes up and wanders down. Morgana’s perched on the only book-free corner of the countertop, wearing a black dress and a red beret. How she pulls that off without looking the smallest bit tacky, Merlin hasn’t the faintest idea. She’s listening intently to Gwen, who’s leaning on the other side of the counter, saying: “I mean, Hemingway does have his moments of absolute genius, but sometimes I get so tired of all these _old men_. Gertrude Stein, on the other hand…”

Arthur’s studying one of the book displays, back turned to the girls, hands in the back pockets of his jeans. The pose is far more appealing than it should be allowed to be. And the way Arthur’s hair is tousled in the back shouldn’t fill Merlin with such ridiculous tenderness, really. He bumps Arthur’s shoulder with his own, and nods to the girls.

“Now that is one scary combination.”

Arthur grins. “Maybe we could just leave them be for the rest of the day, let them plot the demise of literature as we know it.”

Morgana looks up at that, flicking a sharp smile at them.

“Oh no, Arthur, you’re not getting out of museum duty that easily. Gwen and I will have a literary dinner instead, tonight.”

Gwen almost glows. “Yes, lets! Drop by when you’re done sightseeing. I’ll find you a copy of _The_ _Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas_ ‘til then, I’m sure you’d like it.”

Morgana has quite a few things to say on the topic of Mona Lisa and the sheep mentality of tourists, and so they abandon Arthur’s original plan and go for the modern art at Centre Pompidou instead of the Louvre. Merlin’s favourite part of the museum is the escalators. No, really. They zigzag in tubes on the façade of the building, taking you diagonally upwards, and Merlin watches transfixed as they’re slowly rising over the rooftops around. The view at the top is kind of breathtaking, the street performers on the square below and the city stretching out around them, rooftop beyond rooftop. And standing there, you know that behind every window you see, there’s a life going on – everyday habits carried out, life-changing decisions being taken. And every ant-sized person passing down there on the ground is a human life carrying thousands of potential stories.

“Aren’t you coming to see the exhibition,” Arthur asks, and when Merlin neither moves nor answers, Arthur huffs a small laugh. He slips his arms around Merlin’s waist and rests his chin on Merlin’s shoulder, says: “What is it that’s so special about this view?”

Merlin’s grip on the railing tightens. He wonders if Arthur’s trying to prove a point by hugging him here, like this, and to whom (him? Morgana?), and what the point is. There’s such an illusion of safety in this – Arthur’s chest warm against his back, his arms a strong frame. Arthur’s breath tickles over his throat, sending a shiver down Merlin’s spine. He tells himself to get a grip.

\---

Gwen’s seated on a bench under one of the Japanese cherry trees when they get back to the store, reading her book of the day. (Simone de Beauvoir, Merlin notes.) She’s wearing a raspberry red linen dress that Merlin recognises from when she went out with Lancelot, before he went all noble and self-sacrificing and signed up for that peace-keeping mission. Gwen slips inside to put her book away and comes back out with a packet, carefully wrapped in plain brown paper, tucked under one arm. Morgana takes her other arm and they walk off, seemingly deep in conversation within ten steps.

“It seems I’m released from my host duties for the night. Entertain me?” says Arthur.

This time, they start drinking at Arthur’s place, which might explain why they’re less drunk than last time when they find themselves wrapped around each other on the couch. It’s so easy. It’s warmth and skin on skin, Arthur’s thumb at the corner of Merlin’s mouth, Merlin’s hands curling around the nape of his neck. Merlin doesn’t remember why he’s tried to resist this, this falling, of Arthur, Arthur, a tangle of emotions without end, this burning need of hands on his skin, everywhere. He’s falling.

Arthur dozes off, sprawled on the couch. Merlin extricates himself carefully and slips out into the night, letting the cool air clear his head as he walks home in the yellow streetlight, towards his lumpy mattress.

\---

“Morgana’s staying for a few weeks,” declares Gwen the next morning. “She’s taking a working holiday, she said, searching out authors they’re interested in translating.”

“Ooh,” says Merlin, turning from his window-cleaning towards her, “That’s news. Did someone employ all her charms yesterday? That red dress looks a wonder on you, you know.”

Gwen doesn’t know what to make of Morgana, of dinner last night, and how pleased she is that Morgana’s staying in town. And Merlin’s spent so much time good-naturedly poking fun at her romantic entanglements (really, someone called Merlin has no right to laugh that much at Lancelot being a pretentious name), that he has it coming to him. So Gwen snorts and says: “Hey, if anyone in here’s having a morally dubious relationship and pretending no one’s noticing, it sure isn’t me.”

Merlin freezes mid-sweep, then goes back to scrubbing painstakingly at the window and refuses to look Gwen in the eye or say a single word for at least half an hour. She asks him question after question, then chatters to fill the silence, and it’s the most awkward thing, perhaps the worst since that one time she got locked in a classroom with her secret crush when she was fourteen.

“Won’t you please just tell me what the problem is? I mean, I was _joking_, it was just one of these things you say… Did something happen with the two of you?”

Merlin looks at her then, smiling painfully. “Don’t, Gwen. Please don’t. Just leave it.”

She does, but Merlin’s reaction still weirds her the hell out.

\---

Hunith sends a letter to tell Merlin that he’s welcome to stay with an old friend of hers, should he need it. It’s a man called Gaius, a doctor, living in one of the suburbs outside Paris. Merlin recognises it as a fairly exclusive little town. Hunith writes that she got to know him when she was studying in Paris as a teenager, and Merlin thinks that she must have some blackmail material on him. Considering that the man hasn’t ever met Merlin, and is still offering to put him up just because Hunith thought he might like something a little less bohemian. A few days ago he would’ve said thank you very much, but no thanks. Now, it feels like an escape, an opportunity to breathe.

He borrows a phone and calls Gaius the same evening. Gaius answers in French, then switches to a very correct English with just a faint trace of an accent when he understands who’s calling. Merlin gets directions and an invitation to come the next day and stay as long as he likes.

Everyone looks at him oddly when he packs up and says he’s leaving to visit a friend of his mum and intends to stay there for a while. Gwen argues that it’s not that far by train, so why doesn’t he just visit over the day? Arthur says he’s stupid and clearly very boring if he prefers to hang out with an old man in suburbia, when he could be making Paris unsafe with Arthur. He’s also told that there’ll still be a place for him in the bookstore, if he doesn’t stay away for way too long.

Gaius isn’t quite what Merlin had imagined, walking from the train station between gigantic villas behind high fences or hedges, surrounded by huge lawns. There’s even pools and, in one garden, an artfully built pond with a fountain. Gaius' house turns out to be a modest two-storey cottage, tucked in at the end of a street, with a garden just big enough for a table and a few potted plants. There’s a kitchen and a living room overflowing with piles of books and medical journals and knickknacks downstairs, and two small bedrooms upstairs. Gaius himself is a grey-haired elderly man with very expressive eyebrows, and he asks Merlin a million questions while wielding his knives and kitchen utensils with the precision of a surgeon, cooking them dinner. It seems his offer to give Merlin a place to stay is less a result of blackmail and more a result of Gaius’ incurably curious nature. He hasn’t seen Hunith for years, and really wanted to know how that son of hers had turned out.

Taking a closer look at the walls in the living room, while Gaius makes coffee, Merlin realises that Hunith’s stories might not have such disastrous consequences for the reputation of a doctor in suburbia as he’d thought. There are spectacular old black and white photographs representing different shades of decadence and rebellion arranged all around the room. He even finds one of what looks like a sixteen-year-old Hunith smiling triumphantly, standing next to a twentysomething man on top of an overturned car.

“That’s your mother and me,” Gaius says and looks fondly at the picture.

“Doesn’t it, you know, offend people? That their doctor used to throw stones at the police?”

“I’m intellectual enough to get away with it,” Gaius replies and there’s a trace of bitterness in the tone as he continues. “Once you’re settled in the middle-aged bourgeoisie it is almost a merit to have been a revolutionary student. And I never bring patients here, anyway.”

\---

Merlin lasts two days, writing in the tiny garden and wandering around this town that’s filled with a quietness built of too much money and too little life, before he borrows Gaius' phone to call Arthur and decide on a time and place to meet in the city.

“See, I told you it’d drive you mad,” Arthur says, “What fun can old men in suburbia be, compared to Paris, anyway?”

“You wouldn’t believe the stories he tells, though. They’re wilder than my mum’s, and I always thought she was exaggerating like crazy. When she gets on the topic of Paris in ’68, everything just spirals out of control and you’re lucky if you get away with your ears still intact. But it’s pretty hysterical.”

“You are a strange, strange man, Merlin,” says Arthur.

\---

Merlin stays at Gaius’ for while longer, but he spends more and more time with Arthur, taking walks and writing in parks while Arthur is in class. Then they’ll make dinner together, and Merlin will miss the last train to Gaius’ town at nine o’clock, and end up staying the night. He’ll try to kip on the sofa and let Arthur have the bed, but they’ll end up curled around each other, held together by the twisted sheets in Arthur’s bed, anyway.

The next time Merlin manages to catch the train, Gaius has packed his things. He hands Merlin his rucksack, smiles fondly and says: “Allez, va t’en à Paris et profites-en bien, jeune homme. Come back when you’re in the mood for dinner and old men’s tales. And give Hunith my love.”

Living with Arthur works kind of splendidly, for a while. Merlin hangs out at the bookstore almost as much as before and Morgana is still around to torment Arthur and drag Gwen off on incomprehensible cultural quests throughout the city. Merlin loves taking early morning walks in the Luxembourg gardens, sneaking out before Arthur wakes up, and adores coming back to slip into bed and wake Arthur with cold fingers along his shoulders.

Then there's the day when Merlin buys a newspaper that makes this carefully gathered happiness fall apart again. It all splinters into shards of printer's ink in his hands.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Merlin reads that paper, Gwen finds a manuscript and Arthur does try his best.

Arthur comes home, drops his bag by the door and throws his jacket over a chair, calling out:

“Merlin? Hey, could you help me out this afternoon? I really can’t figure out that subjonctif bullshit.”

It’s quiet. But Merlin’s shoes are standing by the door, left in mid-step, so he should be here. Arthur pokes his head into the bedroom. It’s also empty. In the living room, he almost stumbles over a newspaper spread out on the floor. It’s the Guardian, which Merlin buys every now and then. Arthur doesn’t understand why he can’t just read the online version, but he’s already accepted that Merlin is a quirky old-fashioned person. He turns the paper around with his toes. _Acquittal in manslaughter case_, the headline reads. _Four men freed from all charges in suspected hate crime. -There is a lack of evidence, says the judge. We cannot prove their guilt beyond the shadow of a doubt. It might have been an ordinary pub brawl gone wrong… Gay rights groups are outraged and claim the event in February last year, when a twenty-year-old man was beaten unconscious and left to freeze to death, clearly was a hate crime. The young man, a student who was on his way from a seminar the Friday evening he was attacked, died from his injuries the same night. _

He finds Merlin in the bathroom, curled in a corner, the contents of Arthur’s bathroom cabinet spread over the floor around him –bottles and tubes, painkillers scattered like white pearls, razor blades glittering in the harsh light.

“I can’t even,” Merlin says, with a desperate sound between a laugh and a sob. “He’s dead and it’s my fault and I can’t even…”

Arthur feels like he can’t breathe. He nudges a path open, taking great care to distance the razor blades from Merlin without making it obvious, then sits down next to Merlin, letting their arms touch lightly. Arthur wants to wrap Merlin in his arms, squeeze the pain out of him, and maybe shake some sense into him because there is no way Merlin could be responsible for a death. But he has a feeling that Merlin will fall apart further if he gets too close too quickly, so he just sits there and eventually Merlin’s head comes to rest on his shoulder. Arthur puts an arm around him.

“I drove off the road, you know. Crashed into a tree. The week after.  They said I was lucky. Didn’t really think so.”

Arthur holds him closer, presses his face to the top of Merlin’s head, thinks about never letting go. “Oh, Merlin.” That’s when Merlin starts to shake, trembling turning to large shudders. Arthur holds him. He thinks that he maybe he should ask questions to help Merlin talk about this, like Morgana keeps telling him – you can’t deal with your feelings without ever talking about them, for god’s sake, Arthur. But he’s terrified of asking the wrong questions, of making Merlin push him away again. So he holds Merlin until the trembling stops, and then takes him to the couch, wraps him in a blanket and makes him hot chocolate.

Merlin laughs at that, says: “Hot chocolate, Arthur? I didn’t think you even knew how to boil water,” but still takes the cup and wraps his fingers around it, contently.

Arthur’s curiosity finally gets the better of him. “Who was he?”

“Will. He was…” Merlin takes a shaky breath and huddles over his cup. “Will.”

\---

Gwen’s tidying when she finds the bundle of papers stuck halfway under a bookshelf, next to Merlin’s old sleeping place. He must’ve forgotten it there. He’s promised to let her read his short stories several times, but keeps forgetting to bring her them. She figures that this is an excellent solution and takes the manuscript with her to read during her break, eating lunch on the square outside.

When she realises that this has nothing to do with gay wizards whatsoever, it’s already too late to stop. She knows this is Merlin’s work, recognises his words, and knows very well that he wouldn’t want her to read this. She feels like an intruder, like a voyeur, but she cannot stop. Half an hour passes like seconds, stretched out on the lawn.

Gwen steps back inside the shop, the sheaf of papers pressed to her chest. Everything feels distant, tilted, like she’s looking through thick glass. Jean sees her and laughs. He combs her hair out with his fingers, plucking out grass and small leaves. She blinks.

“Couldn’t have waited ‘til evening, could you?” he says. “Alright, it’s a calm day anyway. Go sit out front. I figure you’ll make a fine advert for the pleasure of reading, the way you look.”

Gwen beams at him and promises to make it up to him another day.

\---

Merlin is quiet and has an unnerving tendency to disappear in the middle of a conversation over the following days, staring fixedly into thin air. Arthur ignores the little voice in the back of his mind that sounds like Morgana and reminds him of the importance of talking. He tries to make things normal by acting like they are. He makes Merlin go shopping with him, and lets him laugh at how ill at ease Arthur is in Merlin’s favourite thrift stores because the thought of wearing some stranger’s old clothes makes him shudder. He tries to badger Merlin into buying a phone, but Merlin refuses without even bantering about it. Arthur has to give that idea up as a lost cause. It keeps going like this: Arthur’ll make a stupid joke, and Merlin will laugh and call him a spoiled brat, and Arthur’ll think that they’re fine after all. And five minutes later Merlin’ll do that thing again, when he’s suddenly not present.

Friday night they have a picnic dinner by Canal Saint-Martin. Merlin’s brought a blanket and plastic wine glasses, and Arthur bought the wine, five different kinds of cheese and lots of grapes. On the other bank of the channel, a group of French teenagers are sprawled on the ground around a boy strumming on a scratched guitar. It’s almost too much like a scene from a romance flick.

“Have you been to Versailles yet?” Arthur asks, and Merlin keeps staring down at the murky water. Arthur nudges him with a foot. Merlin starts.

“I asked if you’ve been to Versailles yet.”

Merlin looks at him, searchingly, considering. Arthur thinks that a yes/no-question doesn’t deserve so much thought. Merlin sets his jaw and looks the most determined Arthur’s ever seen him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t be doing this to you. You try so hard and I’m just dragging you down. I can’t do this to you.”

“What the hell do you mean? Don’t tell me you’re… ending this.”

Merlin says nothing and keeps looking so strangely unyielding.

“You’re really… No, you can’t. I won’t allow you to.”

At that, Merlin smiles, and it’s a heartbreaking crooked smile; sad and yet oddly satisfied, like Arthur’s just confirmed that he’s doing the right thing.

“Do you really think you can order me to stay? Then you’re having it wrong.”

Merlin gets up and walks away, and before Arthur’s managed to get enough of a grip on what’s happening to follow him, Merlin’s already slipped away with the metro, doors sliding decisively shut behind him.

\---

“Arthur, you bloody _idiot,_” says Morgana.

\---

“Now, whose heart are you breaking by trying to be noble and fleeing here?” asks Gaius.

“I… what?” says Merlin.

\---

Gwen, to sum it up, feels like shit.

\---

Merlin got his first article published in the local paper on a Wednesday, the 6th February. It criticised the homophobia of the academic world and compared it with the ideals of manliness found in the local sports clubs. He kept the paper open on the kitchen table for two days, admiring it every time he passed. Hunith said she was proud of him. Will told him not to get too full of himself just because he’d gotten his name in print, but also, in the small hours of the morning, that he loved him for writing it.

\---

There are four messages on Will’s answering machine that he never heard, left during the evening of Friday the 8th of February.

18.56

“Hey there, just calling to say I’m here already. Not sure if you’ve even finished yet and it’s damn cold, so I’m not waiting outside. I’ll be at a table in the back, yeah?”

19.24

“You could’ve sent a message to say you’d be late, you know. I’m bored. And this was supposed to be a celebration. Hurry up, would you. Missing you, here.”

19.43

“Will. Where the fuck are you? Are you standing me up? I have no idea why I even like you. Bastard.”

20.01

“Alright, I’m going out to look for you. Wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve managed to slip and break your foot between uni and here. Clumsy bastard. Christ, it’s _freezing._ And for fucks sake, call me back already.”

In the background in the last message there’s a faint sound of sirens, coming closer.

\---

Gwen steps through the open gate and looks around for Morgana, finds her sitting in the shadow under the arched roof. There’s something noble about her here, all pale skin, dark hair, perfect ease, an exotic princess hiding in her gardens – but this is Morgana, with a career in publishing and a flair for sarcasm, tapping rapidly on her cell phone, and Gwen dismisses the thought as silly. She saves the image, though, Morgana looking regal and fey in the small outer courtyard of the Café de la Mosquée. She looks up and smiles. Gwen ducks around one of the knobbly trees and sits down opposite her. Morgana orders tea for two from the waiter, a small dark man in a black vest. The leaves of the fig trees rustle in a soft breeze and by their feet two sparrows are hopping closer, searching hopefully for crumbs. Gwen fingers the bundle of papers in her bag. She pulls it out and puts it on the table between them.

“I need you to read this,” she says.

Morgana turns the bundle around, says: “_Memory of will_. Who wrote it?”

“Merlin.”

“Does he know that you’ve got it?”

“No.”

Morgana pauses for a moment, then says: “Alright,” and carefully places the manuscript in her handbag. Gwen instantly feels lighter, freed. The waiter arrives with two small glasses, elegantly painted in gold, and places them on the blue-white mosaic tabletop. The tea is strong, sweet peppermint. Morgana remarks that she’s finished the Gertrude Stein, and then they spend a good part of the afternoon comparing impressions.

\---

Arthur looks a bit apprehensive when he opens the door of his flat and finds Merlin on the other side. He steps out and drags the door mostly shut behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says. “I’ve been a bit of an idiot, I think.”

Apprehension transforms into a smile on Arthur’s face and Merlin can’t do anything but put his hands around Arthur’s face and kiss him until they’re both breathless. They stand, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling.

“My father’s here,” says Arthur in a hoarse almost-whisper.

“I should leave then.”

Merlin brushes his thumb over Arthur’s cheek, waiting for an answer, then pulls himself up and walks down the stairs when he gets none. Arthur makes no move and no sound behind him, then reopens the door once Merlin’s disappeared and steps back into his flat.

“What was that about,” asks Uther, seated on the couch with a tumbler of whisky in one hand.

“A friend,” answers Arthur, still standing in the doorway.

“Why didn’t you invite her in? Trying to hide your private life from your father, are you?” Uther looks amused, takes another sip of whisky and arches an eyebrow. “Well?”

Arthur has a moment when all his nervousness and just recovered happiness and want and fear and old worries and new ones all consolidate into a think blank. Then –

“I’ll – be right back,” and he’s out the door, taking the stairs four by four, stumbling out on the street and calling “Merlin!” right as the familiar slim figure is about to turn the corner. Merlin stops, spins around and stands perfectly still as Arthur strides up to him.

“Merlin. My father’s come to visit, so I’m not completely free. I’m sorry. But would you like to come up and meet him?”

“Nah,” Merlin answers. “Maybe some other time, if he’s staying long.”

His grin is brilliant, splitting his face in two, and Arthur surges forward, kisses him, claiming this maniac smile, this happiness, this _Merlin_ as his own. Merlin hesitates for seconds, then angles his head to deepen the kiss, wraps his arms around Arthur and presses himself as close as possible. Every nerve in Arthur’s body seems to be on fire.

Next to them on the sidewalk, and old lady walking a tiny furball of a dog falters and stops in midstride.

\---

“Gwen?” says Morgana in the lull between two songs, as the singer on the tiny makeshift stage tunes her guitar. Gwen puts her glass down on the table and leans a little closer.

“Yes?”

“Merlin’s manuscript. It must be published.”

“I know,” sighs Gwen. “I mean it does, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” says Morgana and strokes a rebellious lock of hair out of Gwen’s eyes.

“He’ll hate me,” she says and bites her lip. “I know he will. But it really must.”

When the singer strikes up her next tune, all soft chords and meandering vocals, Morgana sneaks her arm around Gwen and draws her closer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Morgana talks to Merlin, Arthur reads a book and Gwen eats strawberries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a look at this lovely fanart by [](http://gallifreycalls.livejournal.com/profile)[**gallifreycalls**](http://gallifreycalls.livejournal.com/) [Conversation](http://gallifreycalls.livejournal.com/2681.html), of Merlin and Arthur on île de la cité. Imagine Merlin referencing Zola, there.

Uther leaves Paris the very next day, having finished his business deal. Arthur doesn’t get around to introducing him to Merlin. He knows he will, next time, he’ll probably say: Father, this is Merlin, my… boyfriend, and be awkward and fumbling. He doesn’t know how Uther will react – confused probably, possibly disapproving, stiff and uncomfortable. Arthur will be very bothered by however it goes down, he knows. He also knows that it’ll happen anyway – that he decided it the moment he left his father alone in the flat to pull Merlin into a crushing kiss on the sidewalk, and yet it feels like a decision taken a lifetime ago, already written in bold letters, unquestionable.

\---

Merlin is surprised when it turns out that the dinner Morgana invited him to is for just the two of them. She never said either way when she stopped him outside the shop earlier in the afternoon, but he’d assumed that Gwen and Arthur would be there at least. Fortunately she doesn’t seem to be trying to impress him or some such. Considering how Arthur chose a restaurant when trying to make a good impression on her, and how she took the fanciness all in stride, it’s a relief that they go for sandwiches. Well, they are sandwiches made from ecological freshly baked bread, in a small very pretty little shop with a café. A few middle-aged women are having tea and chattering in low tones, exclusive bags spread out around them. Still, at least there’s no expensive wine list.

“Merlin,” Morgana says and folds her napkin into a small square. “I would like to publish your book.”

Merlin’s just taken a bite of his gigantic, well-filled sandwich. It feels like it’s swelling in his mouth now, as he chews and chews and stares at Morgana. There’s an odd twitch at the corner of her mouth, and she keeps fiddling with the napkin.

“Really? I thought you only worked with non-fiction. My fantasy stuff is about as far from non-fiction as you get… And hang on, why d‘you… you haven’t even read it yet.”

There is a moment of silence. Morgana smoothes the napkin out. Merlin says: “Have you?”

“Not your fantasy, Merlin. _Memory of will._” She meets his eyes properly again, steadfast, convinced. Merlin feels like the bottom of his stomach dropped out, like his inside turned into a bottomless pit he could disappear in. He’s balancing on the edge, stuttering.

 “When… How did you,” he says.

“You’d left a copy of the manuscript in the bookstore. Gwen found it, and passed it on to me.”

“You had no right. Either of you,” Merlin bites out.

“It needs to be published,” she says. “For your sake. For Will’s. For everybody, really.”

“How dare you,” Merlin says and stands, pushes himself up. His hands only stop shaking when he presses them flat on the table, supporting his weight.

“Fuck you, Morgana,” he says as he leaves, and once more with emphasis. The shop falls very silent behind him.

\---

Somehow, Merlin isn’t very surprised when Arthur finds him where’s he’s sitting down by the Seine, feet dangling over the edge of the quay.

“Hey,” he says as Arthur slides down next to him. “How did you find me?”

“Morgana called,” Arthur says. “Said you’d had a fight of some kind. And then I figured I’d find you here. You’re kind of predictable, you know.”

Merlin huffs a tiny laugh. It’s possibly true – Merlin tends to waver between maintaining a very bohemian lifestyle and giving in to his natural tendency to be a creature of habit.

“And don’t take Morgana too seriously. She goes too far for everybody, sooner or later, being her insufferable self. Don’t let her get to you, alright?”

Arthur knows nothing. Merlin feels like the void inside him diminishes by every minute that Arthur’s there, naively caring, drawing him away from the edge with a warm hand around his hip.

\---

Three days later Gwen is taking an afternoon shift in the store, covering for Jean, who’s either on a date or off doing something so dodgy that would Gwen rather not find out. It’s an on and off day – for an hour the shop’s filled to the brim with people and she answers three questions a minute, and then it’s so completely still that she can read uninterrupted for twenty minutes. Merlin comes during one of the calm moments. She looks up from her book (Nina Bouraoui, _Poupée Bella,_ she’s dipping her toes in contemporary French literature) and smiles widely when he steps through the door. She’s been missing him lately. But the second he sets eyes on her, he turns to leave.

“Merlin, wait!”

When he swirls back, he’s blazing with anger.

“Gwen. Don’t talk to me. I don’t understand how you could, but I don’t want to hear it.” And then he’s gone.

\---

Merlin refuses to say another word to either Gwen or Morgana for two weeks.

\---

In the evening, sitting cross-legged in the middle of Morgana’s queen-sized hotel room bed, Gwen says: “I should have known better. He’s my friend.”

“Yes, you’re his friend,” Morgana answers. “And that’s why you did it.”

“He hates me. I know he does, now. I should’ve left it alone,” Gwen says to her knees.

“We need to give him some time. He’ll come around,” says Morgana. Gwen really, really wants to believe her.

\---

Arthur can tell that this conflict’s making Merlin unhappy. He no longer seems to be on the verge of fleeing from Arthur, but he laughs too little and broods too much. It must be this thing with Morgana and Gwen. As far as Arthur can tell, Gwen is quite brilliant at making Merlin laugh, so he thinks she’d better get back to it.

He tries to act as a go-between, but he doesn’t understand what the problem is and therefore mostly makes things worse.

\---

Merlin gets another letter from his mother. It ends like this: _take care, my little storyteller._ It’s been a while since she called him that. She used to, all the time. She’d say: “Oh, my little storyteller. What have you gotten yourself into now?” Usually he had gotten himself into something he couldn’t manage to get himself out of, letting his mouth run along with his brain. His stories were always better at getting him into messes than out of them.

That was who he was, who he’s always been – little storyteller. Will used to call him bigmouth and braggart and then ask for another cock and bull story, please.

\---

There’s a thick bundle of papers left on Arthur’s bed. On top lies a note in Merlin’s sprawling handwriting. _I need you to read this. If I’m doing this. Out walking, will be back later._

\---

Morgana doesn’t, as a general rule, do sleepovers. But when she and Gwen have finished marathon-watching Kieslowski’s Three Colours, the last metro is long gone and Gwen is sprawled bonelessly across Morgana’s bed, fighting to keep her eyes open. She digs out an extra toothbrush and a t-shirt for her to sleep in.

Morgana wakes from winding dreams in the darkest hours of the night, breathing hard, fingers twisted, cramped, in the soft fabric of Gwen’s t-shirt. Gwen is watching her, rubbing small circles on Morgana’s shoulder. She can just make out the shape of her in the dusk of the room, eyes wide open, half-lying on her side, propped up on one elbow. “What am I doing, Gwen,” Morgana breathes. “What am I doing. Sometimes I think… I just don’t know.”

Gwen hushes her and holds her close, asks no questions. Slowly, Morgana drifts back to sleep. At dawn, she wakes up again with Gwen’s arm slung comfortably around her middle. It’s a little too hot. Gwen’s hair curls damply around her face. Morgana remembers why she hates waking up next to someone in a shared bed – the feeling of exposure, the smothering warmth and lack of space. She brushes the hair off Gwen’s forehead and feels surprisingly light, warm and content.

Later, for breakfast, she feeds Gwen strawberries. Gwen marvels a bit at the idea of ordering strawberries for breakfast from room service, and then eating them in bed, but doesn’t actually protest. And Morgana loves the way she looks, still dishevelled from sleep, dark hair all tangled, tucked up against the headboard of the bed with her feet tangled in the sheets, licking strawberry juice from her thumb.

\---

Arthur opens the balcony door and sits down to read in the sun. It’s a tiny French balcony, so he’s sitting with his back against the doorframe and his legs stretched out on the balcony, feet propped up on the bottom of the railing. He doesn’t know what to expect – the whole manner of asking him to read seems a little to serious for the gay wizards short stories Merlin’s been making light-hearted references to ever since they met. He wonders briefly about the note – the “if I’m doing this” and what, exactly, Morgana did or said to upset Merlin that badly. He’s been bothering her about it since, naturally, but she refuses to say. She alternates between telling him to mind his own business already and stop pushing his nose into things he doesn’t understand, and telling him that if Merlin wants him to know, Merlin will tell him. Which actually kind of makes sense. Arthur simply finds it easier to bother Morgana with questions than trying to draw something out of Merlin and risk pushing him into one of those distant, fragile moods. Even if Morgana takes great pleasure in verbally tearing him down.

\---

Merlin calls Will’s mother. She cries at him for half an hour over the phone. The she tells him that she’s been waiting for him to tell their story.

\---

It’s called _Memory of will._ Will as in willpower? Arthur thinks it might be. But also, will as in Will, a boy who loved and was loved with adolescent fervour and plenty of teenage awkwardness and fumbling. A boy who died. Arthur can’t find it in him to be jealous. He is however, irrationally angry with this Will. For being part of every aspect of Merlin’s life for years and years, through childhood tree climbing and scraped knees, handling bullies and homework and disappearing fathers, teenage rebellion and drunken fumbles, village gossip and small town intolerance, the start of a path towards a bigger life. Reaching for more than was accepted. For loving and being loved, never in such big words but none the less completely, and then getting himself killed. Arthur burns with anger at what Merlin has been left with – the hard knowledge of how Will bled to death on a dirty pavement a cold February evening. The absolute loneliness of it. For both of them.

\---

That night, Arthur tells Merlin that he loves him. He whispers it to the pale skin of Merlin’s stomach, to the nape of his neck, the soft dip of his collarbones. Perhaps Merlin hears him, perhaps he doesn’t. His hands flit over Arthur’s body, stroking, tracing, teasing, drawing him close. He mumbles Arthur’s name into the kisses. Arthur draws him into his arms and holds him, tucks Merlin’s head against his chest and hooks a leg over his hip. Merlin’s hair tickles his chin and mouth. Arthur whispers: “You’re kind of brilliant, Merlin. And I’m here and I’m staying.”

\---

In the morning, Merlin goes to talk to Gwen.

“I still don’t know if I’m sorry of angry,” he tells her. “But thank you.”

She smiles, glittering and bordering on tearstained.

“You, you are going to be famous. Because you’re an absolutely amazing writer, you stupid thing. You should’ve known you are. Then I wouldn’t have had to act so stupidly… Oh, Merlin.” She hugs him, hard. Then she tells him that she’s sorry, but also that he really is stupid, and then calls herself horrible to make up for it, then names him a surprisingly dumb genius. Merlin has to laugh.

\---

The press-release, which Morgana reads to them on a rainy afternoon while they’re dawdling in a coffee shop all four of them, describes _Memory of will_ as one of the most important books published this year. A gripping tale, a love story, a tragedy.

The bookstore has pre-ordered a fair number of copies. Jean swears that he’ll make sure to display them very prominently and tell everybody that he knows the author personally. “Odd fellow, very distinctive ears, but he does indeed have a way with words.” Merlin chucked a pen at his head for that, but as he couldn’t stop smiling the effect might’ve been a bit lost.

\---

It’s the blue hour, dusk, crepuscule. The pale blue, purple, rosy, golden light wraps the city in soft colours, fuzzy shapes in the distance contrasting with sharp silhouettes closer up. The domes of Sacre Cœur shine white like a beacon. Dew falls. There’s a chilly bite in the air. Merlin leans on the railing next to Arthur, rubbing his hands together to get some feeling back into his fingers.

“I think I kind of love this place,” Arthur says, admiring the city spreading out below them. Merlin agrees. “Let’s stay for a while, yeah?”

The thing about life, Merlin thinks, is that it goes on. As long as you keep breathing it continues, moves, develops, in old patterns or unexpectedly, but always, always changing somewhat with every single breath you take. On molecular levels or in revolutionary grand ways. Love grows, changes. Keep breathing and a thousand paths lie open.

Arthur’s hands rests next to his. Merlin weaves their fingers together, thinks, _this,_ this is it now – the possibilities are never-ending –  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the story. All comments are very appreciated.


End file.
